Shards of Dream
by EstelRaca
Summary: Sometimes there are small moments of friendship or doubt that don't advance the plot. This is where they go. A collection of one-shots for "Dreamers in the Shadows". Each chapter stands alone, and there will be a note at the top of the chapter saying where in the story it belongs.
1. Crimson Tiles

**Author's Note:** This is a spin-off series of one-shots based on my longer fanfic "Dreamers in the Shadows". Most of these won't make much sense unless you know what's been going on there. This little bit takes place during Chapter 28. I'm quite happy to write any scenes that people would like and put them in this story collection.

_Crimson Tiles_

There's blood everywhere.

Con knows it's not true. He knows that the blood was diluted by water, and that this means it stained far more than it should have. He knows that the person who almost undoubtedly owned the blood at one time is doing just fine right now.

He knows that the blood isn't Eric's blood.

He hates himself, a little bit, for thinking that and being relieved at first. Erin is as much his friend as Eric is, and the fact that the blood belongs to her and not Eric shouldn't make anything better.

Doesn't make anything better.

Because it's Erin's blood but it was used to rip apart Eric's soul, and Con opens his mouth, forces himself to breathe slowly and calmly through that rather than his nose. There isn't much smell from the blood, but he doesn't want any of it in his nose, triggering his gag reflex.

_We need to clean it up._ Combeferre's voice is a soft, tired murmur in his head. _We need to clean it up before we do anything else._

Before they shower, before they clean themselves off like Cori had suggested, before they try to wash away the worst of the last twenty-four-hours of horror, they need to get the blood cleaned out of the shower and off the bathroom floor and off the sink and—

One place at a time.

One bit at a time.

He starts with the sink and the mirror, because it has the least amount of blood. There are still five or six smeared hand prints, four of them smaller, Eric's hands, slipping and sliding on the mirror, on the countertop, smearing the watered-down liquid around so that it leaves pretty ruby trails behind, dries almost phosphorescent red on the glass of the mirror. There are two larger handprints, Grant's hands, grabbing Eric, hauling him toward the paramedics.

Why did Eric claw at the mirror? What did he see there to draw his attention, to pull him toward it? What was he reaching for? Himself? His identity, his consciousness, his memories, drowning amidst a dozen other permutations of him, broken and fragmented by whatever the beast did to him?

_He's healing. He's recovering._ Combeferre's words are soothing, and he has seen blood like this, worse than this, and Con holds tight to that as he finishes with the mirror.

He cleans the floor next. The bath mat needs to go through the wash, so he folds it carefully and places it up on the toilet, making sure that it won't leave any new bloodsmears. Grant and Eric will have to decide if they want to try to clean the small footprint off of it or if they want to simply throw it out.

Grant would throw it out, likely.

_Grantaire might keep it somewhere as a souvenir._ There's actually a note of wry humor to Combeferre's voice. _He… wasn't always reasonable about Enjolras. Something like that, a memento like that, he might leave the bloody footprint and hide it away somewhere._

_Grant… might do that as well._ It's really not funny. It's really not fair, to laugh at a friend, but a smile still twitches at Combeferre's lips as he considers Eric's exasperation should he ever find Grant doing something like that. Except…_ No. He wouldn't keep this. Hair, definitely, or nail clippings, or other weird things. I could see him making a small shrine to Eric. But not… this. Not something so tied into pain for us._

_I know. Grantaire wouldn't, either. It's just… Laugh or cry, Con. It's what we have to do, sometimes._ Combeferre understands how he feels, feels it himself, and Con tries not to shiver as he once more has the distinct impression of looking into a mirror that shows his heart and soul.

The bloody footprints on the floor are somehow easier to deal with than the mirror was. At least he knows what these mean. At least he understands that Grant's larger footprints surrounding Eric's slender ones just indicate Grant helping Eric to the door, to the paramedics, to the hospital where they poured blood into his veins to replace what the _monster_ ripped from him when it tore through his _soul_—

He has to stop, to take a deep breath, and his vision is blurry even though he still has his glasses on and it takes him a moment to realize that's because there are tears in his eyes.

"Can we laugh _and_ cry? Is that allowed?" A low, dark chuckle slips from Con's throat.

_Definitely allowed._ Combeferre hesitates. _Do you want me to come forward? Do you want me to finish this?_

"No. I'll do it." He's spent half the day with Combeferre in control of his body already—half the day with his thoughts so tangled with Combeferre's he wasn't always sure where he stopped and Combeferre started. He will do this himself.

The entire bottom of the shower is a showcase of the color red. The edges have darkened, flaking up in places, maroon and carmine and rosewood flecks that stick to his hands. The area around the drain still hasn't dried completely yet, though, maintains the true scarlet hue of well-oxygenated blood, and in between the maroon and the scarlet there is every shade of red imaginable.

He doesn't allow himself to think as he cleans. He just turns on the water, dumps half the bottle of bleach into the bottom of the shower, and scrubs until his hands burn and the water runs clean and there isn't a trace of red anywhere to be seen.

He doesn't think of Eric, screaming as cool water tried to keep his body and mind from burning away.

He doesn't think of the bruises, so dark and horrible against Enjolras' pale skin.

He doesn't think of Grant's haunted eyes, of Grantaire's dark despair.

He doesn't hum any of the _Red and Black_ song from the musical, and he doesn't bite his lip until it bleeds a single drop of fresh crimson when he finds himself doing it, the pain driving away the half-mad laughter that bubbles in his throat.

He cleans.

He cleans, and when he's done he strips out of his clothes as quickly as he can and dives under the hot water himself, though there is a part of him that wonders darkly if any of the Amis can ever truly be clean after this, if anything that monster has touched could ever really be washed spotless again.


	2. The Truth of Calm in Silence

**Author's Note:** This little snippet would go between chapters 28 and 29. Enjoy!

_The Truth of Calm in Silence_

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Every eight seconds, now, the old plumbing in the building finally catching up to the fact that he turned the water off four or five minutes ago, and Conlan allows his eyes to follow each water droplet.

They're beautiful, really. Absolutely gorgeous, the way the light refracts off of them, rainbows dancing in each one, the way the shape changes, the elongated growth from the edge of the showerhead, the sphere that surface tension attempts to form as soon as the drop has grown too large to hold to the metal and it falls freely through space, the tiny splash as the newly-born sphere shatters into a thousand pieces against the white tile of the shower floor.

White now, not red, not rust, not russet or maroon or any of the other colors that the water flowed as he cleaned blood out of Eric's shower so that he could put himself in the shower and clean off.

He did clean off, too, cleaned off and then turned off the water and he needs to stand up again. He doesn't even know how he went from standing to huddled at the back of the shower, away from the showerhead, the warm water drying on his body and in his hair and making him cold.

_Conlan._ Combeferre's voice is concerned but understanding, the other man's thoughts a gentle probing along the edge of Con's mind. _Conlan, it's going to be all right. He's going to be all right. So you need to stand up—_

"Stop." Con finds that both his hands have gone to his head, are pressing hard at his ears as though that could make the voice disappear, grant him peace and privacy in his own mind at least, make things normal again just for a few minutes. "Please, stop."

_Don't break on me, Conlan._ There's panic and utter despair in Combeferre's thoughts for a moment, a sharp thickening of the other man's accent. _I need you. I'm sorry if I'm upsetting you. I'm sorry I'm here. Do you think I _want_ to be here, a captive in your mind, a parasite living off your time? We are here, though, we are here and I don't know what will happen to me if you break, I don't know what will happen to _him_, I don't know _anything—

The sob is a harsh sound, ripping itself from Con's throat without his permission, and he shifts one hand to cover his mouth while his other arm wraps around his head. His eyes close, without his volition, but darkness is not what he wants, is something to fear and hate, and he forces his eyes open again, focuses his vision on the water drips. At least he can see them clearly. At least they are far enough away for his eyes to focus on them, for him to see rainbows instead of only blurred shadows. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Combeferre, I'm sorry, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm—"

A soft knock sounds in time with the next drip, and Conlan almost jumps out of his skin, banging his elbow hard against the rear wall of the shower.

"Con?" It's Cori's voice, quiet and concerned. "Everything all right?"

"Yes." The word is a whisper, too quiet for Cori to hear, and Con forces his breathing to slow from his panting hyperventilation. He has to speak calmly. He has to be in control, for everyone's sake. "I'm fine, Cori. I'm fine."

"All right." There's a faint rattle at the door, the sound of someone turning the locked handle. "Do you have your clothes in there? Do you need anything?"

He needs to stand. He needs to dry off. He needs to dress. He needs to rejoin the others, to rejoin Eric.

He needs to touch Eric, to smile reassuringly, to help Eric put the pieces of his mind back together without showing him how much it _hurts_, how painfully _wrong_ it is to hear Enjolras apologize to him, and—

"No." The word is a low moan as he rips his thoughts away from Combeferre again. "Con. Eric. Con. Eric. Not Enjolras."

_Except he is._ Combeferre's words, soft but undeniable, unavoidable. _He was mine, first. He was Enjolras, and that's half of why you love him, half of why it hurts you to see him like this, because it is _wrong_, it is so utterly_ wrong_, and—_

The shower curtain is pulled aside in one swift motion, and Cori stands there, his face a rictus of dismay. "Oh, Con."

_I'm fine._

_Don't look at me like that._

_I'm sorry._

_You shouldn't be here._

So many words, so many things that he should say, but they all tangle in his throat, in his mind, and so Con says nothing and as quickly as he appeared Cori is gone.

Cori reappears again a moment later, though, settling down on his heels just outside the shower, a black towel held in his hands. "Come here, Con. Come dry off and sit with me."

He needs to dry off. It's what he's needed to do for the last six minutes, and it shouldn't be so hard to move the two feet to the left and allow the towel to be wrapped around his body. Shivering, uncertain if he'd been doing that before Cori came in, Con crawls out of the shower on shaking hands and half-numb knees and allows Cori to wrap him in the towel.

"There we go." Cori croons the words, his hands brisk and firm as they press the towel against Con's body. "That's it, my friend. We'll get you dry and warm again, and then we'll get you out of here and get some dinner into you and you are going to be in the first round of sleeping people."

"Don't want to sleep." He mumbles the words, then forces his head to rise and his eyes to focus as best they can on Cori's too-close face. "I'm so tired, Cori, but if I sleep… if I sleep…"

"If you sleep, it might come for you. I know." Cori's hand presses gently against Con's cheek. "Are you frightened? Is that what's happening?"

"No. Yes. No." Con shivers, finding his body pressing close to Cori without his intending it to. It's a comfortable position, though, and he'll take any comfort he can get right now. "I want to kill it. I want to kill it so badly it frightens me. But… it did this to _him_. It hurt Eric so badly, and I know it must have cheated but if it cheats again… if I'm hurt… if I'm hurt, what happens to him?"

"He'll go on. He'll continue to fight, and the rest of us will fight alongside him while giving you any comfort that we can." Cori's hand moves, his thumb caressing in gentle circles on Con's cheek. "You don't bear all the responsibility for him on your shoulders, Con. There are eleven other people here—twelve, if you count Gary, and I would because that boy makes precocious seem like an understatement—and we'll all take care of him. So if you're tired, rest. Take care of yourself. Or, better yet, let us take care of you."

"I'm not as bad off as Eric. As Erin." Con swallows, trying to find complete sentences again. "I don't need to distract people from their own problems, or those who were actually injured."

"We've all been injured." Cori's voice is firm and certain. "It tortured _all_ of us for four months before we knew what was going on, Con. You've got a right to be exhausted, to be drained, to need help."

"Combeferre." It would be better if he could close his eyes to retreat. It would be better if there was silence in his head. "It tortured Combeferre."

"And, by extension, you." Cori frowns. "You've always been the staunchest about pointing out that we're the same person, variations on a theme. What's—"

"I almost lost the distinction." The words pour from his mouth, and he didn't even know he needed to say them, didn't know they were important. "I almost… we were so focused on Enjolras, on helping him, on getting him through it, we almost lost any distinction between the two of us, Courfeyrac. I almost lost _myself_, drowned myself in an older, dead version of me, and—"

"Con." Cori's voice cuts across his rising, panicked word. "Con, it's all right. It's fine. You didn't lose yourself. You're still Conlan, right? You still remember your childhood? You still remember meeting me? You still remember meeting me, and meeting Finny, and meeting Meme?"

He does. He remembers all of it, crystal-clear, and with each memory called forth his breathing slows, the panic ebbing. "Yes."

"As long as you remember who you were, what we've done, then you're not going to lose yourself." Meeting his eyes, Cori gives a tentative smile. "Right? We're the sum of our soul and our upbringing, our nature and our nurture. You _can't_ lose yourself."

"Even though I remember his life, too. His beliefs." Con shivers once more. "I can't lose myself."

"You can't. We won't let you." Cori's hands drop, hold both of Con's tightly. "The two of you were in agreement because there was nothing to be in disagreement about. And because his… slipping like that, sliding between personalities, it encouraged us to do the same, to try to keep up and help him. But you'll be fine, Con. You'll be yourself, and Combeferre will be himself, and they're both wonderful people to be."

"Right." Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Con nods. "You're right. And I'm sorry, Combeferre."

_It's fine._ Combeferre's voice is still drained, tired, his accent thick to the point that Con's not sure they're even sharing languages anymore. _I'm just glad to hear you… better._

"Courfeyrac." Con licks at his lips. "Could you talk with him? With Combeferre?"

"Certainly." The word is in French, the slide between Cori and Courfeyrac easy and graceful. "Come, my friend, let's give you a bit of reassurance and comfort as well."

Combeferre closes his eyes, but finds the darkness behind his eyelids as distasteful as Conlan did. Borrowed eyelids, borrowed eyes, and he rests his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder. "I am tired, Courfeyrac."

"Undoubtedly." Courfeyrac's arms are warm around him, securing him in place. "I'm tired, as well, and I haven't done nearly as much as you these last few hours."

"You've done quite a bit. Working with the others. Arranging sleeping groups. Looking into the fires." Such a long list of things they need to do, need to work on, and the enormity of the situation they're facing strikes him again. "Do you think we'll be able to defeat it, Courfeyrac?"

"I think we've a better shot than most people." Courfeyrac's voice is honest and contemplative. "I think… it doesn't really understand us. It thinks it does. It understands that bonds are important, that cutting them hurts. It thinks doing this to him, hurting him, is going to be enough to break our faith in him and each other. But it's wrong." Courfeyrac's head lowers, his lips scant millimeters from Combeferre's ear. "It's so wrong, Combeferre, because all it's done is make me angry. Angrier than I've ever been, rage and hatred such as I don't know how to control, and it frightens me."

Raising his head, Combeferre squints, trying to meet Courfeyrac's eyes and make out his expression. "I… don't believe I've ever heard you admit to being frightened."

"I am frightened of it. Of what it can do to us, and of what I want to do to it. I want to destroy it utterly. I want it to suffer, as we have suffered. I… fear I want vengeance, now, more than justice." Courfeyrac's hands tighten around Combeferre's. "Vengeance for Erin and Eponine. Vengeance for Enjolras and Eric. Vengeance for you, and myself, and all the others. A creature such as that has no right to exist."

"No. It doesn't." Sitting up slowly, Combeferre presses his lips together. "But do we have a right to exist? Do we have a right to be in this time, to be in these bodies?"

"We didn't ask for this. We've no way to undo it." Courfeyrac's eyes close, and he smiles, a soft expression. "And I know Cori, for one, does not begrudge my presence. Does Con not want you present?"

"Sometimes… he wants quiet. Sometimes he wishes he knew what to expect, whether he should be embracing me entirely or waiting for this to end and me to disappear or…" Combeferre hesitates, understanding dawning slowly as the words stumble over each other. "Knowing. That's what we need. We're trying to understand this, to explain it to all of you, to explain it to ourselves, but we don't know anything. We're grasping at straws, making up theories as we go along, and the game keeps getting changed. We don't _know_ anything, and it's hard."

"We do know some things, though." Courfeyrac's hands squeeze tightly. "We know that we're together."

"Yes." Combeferre smiles, and he can feel Conlan's smile, as well, an easing of the tension between them.

"We know that we have Enjolras and the others, whatever names we go by." Courfeyrac grins, just for a moment, the brightest sight Combeferre has ever seen. "We know we _always_ have each other, that we have followed Enjolras and will get to follow him again. We know that reincarnation is real."

"Yes." Combeferre's smile grows as he remembers a bit of the joy that had come with that revelation—a joy tempered almost immediately by Enjolras and Eric fighting, but joy nevertheless.

"We know that the world is better now, will become even better in the future." Courfeyrac's smile fades, replaced by earnest determination. "And we know that our efforts, our friends' efforts, have not been in vain."

"Yes." Combeferre sighs, and the tension leaves his chest, his head—his borrowed head and chest, but it was not his desire to steal any part of Conlan's life, and Conlan knows that.

_I've loved getting to know you, Combeferre, getting to know about your world, your life, your friends._ Con's voice is gentle, apologetic. _I'm just… tired._

_We are all tired, for very good reasons._ Combeferre slides back, returns Con's body to its proper owner. _But we are all alive, and we are all together, and we will survive. Even if we lose, even if we die, we will continue and we will survive._

"Yes." Con wraps his arms around Cori, pulls the other man into a tight hug. "We're alive and we're together, and we'll do what we can to keep each other that way."

"That's more like it." Cori returns the embrace enthusiastically. "Though I would recommend you put some pants on soon, unless you want me to intentionally misinterpret things."

"I'm certain you would never do that." Con stands, finishes drying himself off as best he can, and begins changing. "I'm really sorry about this, Cori. I didn't—"

Cori presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Don't apologize. Eric's rule, remember? You don't have to be the only pillar of strength here, Con. Just remember that. As much as you're telling him to lean on the rest of us, you do it too."

"I will." Shrugging into the clean polo that Cori had brought for him from home, Con holds out a hand to his friend. "Did I hear something about food?"

"Spaghetti. One of those things I can definitely cook. I'm sure you'll love it."

Cori tugs him out the door, into the press of humanity that is the assembled Amis, and Con allows himself to be comforted by their presence, their laughter, and their light.

When he settles down by Eric, he can answer the unspoken question in Eric's eyes with an honest smile, and the answering smile on Eric's face makes everything just a little brighter in the world.


End file.
